My Own Planet

Classic.
That's the only way to describe last night's episode of Joe Millionaire. Absolutely fucking brilliant. I laughed. I cried (from laughing so hard). Seriously, this episode should be nominated for an Emmy. Some highlights, for those of you who missed it.

Downtown, things will be brighter there
Many props to the brilliant camera guys who, rather than follow Evan and Sarah on their wine-soaked romp in the woods, bet on the chance that they'd be too stupid to turn their microphones off, thus prompting them to give us more action than we'd ever get to (or want to) see in front of the camera. (After all, this is Joe Millionaire, not Real World: Las Vegas.) Note to Evan and Sarah: It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what's going on when Evan's doing a lot of (slurp)ing and Sarah's doing a lot of ahhhing. We all read the Starr report.

Finally, Doug has a real girl to fantasize about
The whole Zora-as-Disney-princess sequence was hilarious. It's so refreshing to see a primetime reality dating show that doesn't take itself so seriously. Joe Millionaire knows that it's inherently cheesy, and it capitalizes on that. I just wonder if Snow White would have been so modest as to wear a tank top in the hot tub.

She works hard for her money
Melissa claims that if she inherited $50 mil, she would go to a Third World country and bathe their children because she's "a mercenary type of person." Hmmm...something tells me she meant to say missionary. Melissa, darling, here's today's vocabulary lesson, courtesy of dictionary.com:

mer·ce·nar·y (mûrs-nr) adj.
Motivated solely by a desire for monetary or material gain.

Ohhh, the unintentional irony! She's lucky Evan's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, or she wouldn't be sporting that shiny ruby right now.

Nooooojo
Mojo, Mojo, Mojo. Did you not read last month's Glamour? Repeat after me: Homemade gifts scare guys. HOMEMADE GIFTS SCARE GUYS. Oh, and you could take a poetry lesson from Ryan on The Bachelorette. True, he's no Wordsworth, but at least he abides by the first rule of poetry: Any poem that mentions butterflies is doomed from the get-go. Mojo's downward spiral was truly like a car wreck: incredibly painful, yet I couldn't look away.

And then there's Paul. I love Paul. I love how he swirls his brandy. I love how he still gets his jabs in at Heidi, even though she was eliminated, in a blaze of bad French, two episodes ago. I love the condescending glance he gave the Mojo puzzle. In a word, classic.

Addendum to the last post...and all that jazz
I realize now that I should only place my bets on reality dating shows immediately before the elimination is to occur. Who knew that the Meet My Folks mom felt that she and Tawny had so much in common? Not I. In fact, I based my decision on the fact that Mom seemed to be shocked by Tawny's handcuffs and kiss with Stephanie. But once it was revealed that Stephanie had received a fancy car from a rich older gentleman, I knew it was all over for her. Mom does not like it when the girls date older men who buy them fancy cars. Why? Because once they realize Dan doesn't have the money to outfit them with a new Benz, they'll set their sights on Dad. That's my guess anyway. At any rate, if you'd like to bet on reality TV, please disregard what I said the other day and call me during the commercial break before elimination.

Yesterday afternoon, I went to see Chicago. Needless to say, I spent much of last night dancing around my apartment, singing "All That Jazz" and trying to get my felt cloche hat to look like Catherine Zeta-Jones's did in the movie.

Wanna bet?
Last night, I came up with a foolproof scheme to make more money: betting on reality-TV dating shows. I hit upon this idea after, for the second week in a row, I correctly identified all of Trista's picks on The Bachelorette. So, if anyone's interested in getting a pool going, here are my bets:

Joe Millionaire: Next eliminated: Sarah, Final two: Melissa M. and Mojo, Winner: Melissa M.

Meet My Folks: Final two: Stephanie and Chelsea, Winner: Chelsea

The Bachelorette: Next eliminated: Russ, Final two: Charlie and Ryan, Winner: Ryan

And speaking of reality-TV dating shows, Scott is a prophet of truth. Today's Fifth Wheel is apparently a guy.

Finally, here's something even more bizarre than reality TV: an e-mail from Susan detailing Krithika's recent nuptials:

I'm writing to you from the town of Varkala, in the state of Kerala, where Krithika first met her husband Fabi. I would love to tell you all about Varkala, but you'd probably all be extremely jealous since it's pretty damn close to paradise and you're all probably reading this while at work. So I'll refrain.

The wedding was on the roof of Krithika's parents penthouse apartment in Mumbai (Bombay). Krithika wore a sari, pounds of jewelrey and had her hair done up so as to hide the dreadlocks. Contrary to popular belief, she did not beep and boop her vows. The ceremony was in Hindi though, so I didn't understand them anyway. She looked beautiful and at one point during the wedding we were looking at each other and crying a little bit.

Afterwards the reception was at a Mumbai sports club, the DJ played horrible boyband and techno music and the new Mrs. De Canto (don't think she's really taking his name) had to schmooze with a bunch of Mumbai socialites. I now hold the record for being the drunkest friend at the weddings of college friends, mostly because none of you were there, not because I was that drunk.

Now we're all in Varakala, K is back in her normal hippie clothes and her and Fabi have 6 people accompanying them on their honeymoon.

So what kind of man would Krithika want to marry? His name is Fabricio, Fabi for short, known as Krishna here in India. He's ten years older than her, reasonably attractive, covering up his balding head with a wrapped cloth. He's a spirtiual person and seems to love Krithika very much. He has some emotional baggage, but that's not for me to talk about. They say they want to "stick together" forever. I hope their wishes come true.

Anyways, just wanted to let you all know that Krithika is now a married woman.

Love,
Susan

God love the Hollywood Foreign Press
Reasons why I love the Golden Globes:
-Where else can you see Catherine Zeta-Jones slapping Bono's ass? Not at the Oscars, that's for sure.
-Fashion is generally more daring than at other awards ceremonies (Bjork notwithstanding).
-Free Moet & Chandon! Woo hoo!
-Sometimes you have to push Hugh Grant out of the way to get to the stage.
-Someone's usually in the bathroom when their name is called (blame it on all the free champagne).
-No stupid, purposeless, time-filling host.
-It's usually over at a reasonable hour (not counting the year they gave Babs the Cecil B. DeMille award).
-Edie Falco (one of the few celebrities I've met) always wins.

Chase, when you're rich and famous, will you take me to the Golden Globes? Please? You can save the Oscars for whatever hot young starlet you happen to be sleeping with at the time.

You know what's really scary? I flipped over to Everybody Loves Raymond the other night, where the scene was taking place in the kitchen. Not only did I immediately recognize that their dining chairs were from Pottery Barn, I said to myself, "Hey, that's the Napoleon chair in antique honey!" Truly frightening.

Things you think about when you're unemployed
Is it really fair that The Fifth Wheel is always a girl? Isn't that just perpetuating the stupid male fantasy of the threesome? Don't the girls deserve a little action, too?! What do you think, Scott?

Mmmm, crushworthy
There are only two reasons why I can stand to work at Pottery Barn. One is getting to arrange and rearrange the displays. The other is Cute Stockroom Boy. (Or, because I have been friends with Adrian for too long, CSRB.) CSRB is my latest crush, and I believe him to be very dreamy. (CSRB's real name, in case you are wondering, is Wes.) The downside is that my current relationship with CSRB pretty much consists of the following:

CSRB: "Hey" (dreamy smile)
Me: "Hey" (dreamy smile)

Sigh. I am impossible.

Is this a sign of my popularity?
Or a sign that I live in a really cool neighborhood? Or just a sign that really bizarre things always seem to happen to me? Whatever the case, it seems like every day, I run into someone I know. I've run into another former SPC intern at the Super Target, I spotted one of Southern Accents' contributing designers going into the trendy eyewear store in my neighboorhood, and I saw Thomas, my Jody-Sowell-sounding boss, pulling into the Home Depot. Just now on my way to the library, I ran into my friend Joy from Pottery Barn. I know Birmingham's not that big of a city, but it still seems strange. Kind of like that time Kristen and I ran into four of our former j-school classmates at the Bryant Park Film Series in New York. Ooh. Bizarre.

Better than an alarm clock
Every morning at 9:30, whether I want to be or not, I am awaken by the persistent screams of the children at the Methodist day care behind my apartment. I do not know what is going on at this day care, but every morning, the children scream as if they are being unceremoniously tortured and slaughtered. It's a wonder they haven't all lost their little voices. I guess I should be thankful for the screaming children, as otherwise I would have a hard time dragging myself out of bed before noon.

Screaming children aside, here's something that I've always wondered: When New Yorkers talk about living in a prewar building, exactly what war are they referring to? World War 2? The Civil War? The Revolutionary War? I wonder because I'm reading The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen, and in it, one of the characters talks about living in a prewar building where the elevator is very slow. As the elevator is very slow in my own building, I wondered if it is considered prewar. It was built in the 1920s, so I know it is pre- some wars, but it is also post- other wars. And did you ever notice how no one outside of New York seems to care about this war distinction? It's not as if a war was fought in New York and it's miraculous that these buildings survived. I just do not get it.

Right now I am in the library, watching a middle-aged Indian man read a Seventeen magazine. Fascinating.

The addiction continues
My semi-resolution to stop watching so much cable TV was shot to hell when I randomly plugged in the cable cord in my new apartment and found that I got 70 channels, including WE and the Style channel (my absolute favorite channel, which we did not even get at the old apartment). So far, I have watched 2 episodes of Felicity and a Jennifer Aniston movie marathon on ABC family. I may never get a job.

Mommie dearest
Tonight I was at Target with my dad getting a microwave and looking for a table for my new kitchen. (Update from yesterday: Yes, I got the dream studio apartment! Yaaay!) Anyway, in the home furnishings aisle, I noticed a woman struggling with one of those folding bookcases. As I myself had struggled with the exact same item mere months ago and been helped by a kind stranger (and a cute one, no less), I decided to give the woman a hand. As we were lifting the bookcase into her cart, she says, "Oh, are you pregnant?"

I was horrified. Horrified. I gave shocked little laugh and said no very quickly. At this point, any normal person would have apologized profusely or at least made up some stupid excuse (as in, "I like to ask all women that before they help me lift heavy items, just in case"). But no, this woman says, "Really? Because you look like you're pregnant."

Oh. My. God. Look, I know I haven't really been working out lately, and I can barely remember the last time I did a stomach crunch. And it's true that I had just eaten a big meal, so maybe my stomach was sticking out just a little bit. But still, I was appalled. Needless to say, I have resolved to start doing stomach crunches again, stat.

The joys of apartment-hunting
I decided to actually get off my ass today and try to do something with my miserable life other than watching Felicity and eating cookie dough. What I did was try to look for an apartment, as my current lease is up at the end of the week.

I first went to my dream apartment, which I first mentioned on this blog back in July (check the archives). They had a nice, if small, studio with hardwood floors and a cute, if slightly sketchy, old bathtub. I decided to apply for this apartment, which proved just as difficult as I thought it would, especially because the lady at the office informed me that I couldn't have a co-signer if I wasn't a full-time student. However, she said that if I had good credit and a good leasing history, I should be OK. Then she asked me if I could pay the rent, to which I should have just said yes. But instead I thought it best to babble on and on about how I planned to pay the rent: "Well, right now I have a part-time job at Pottery Barn, and my parents are going to help me out until I can find another part-time job, or a full-time job, or actually if I stay on at Pottery Barn for a month or two, I can be full-time..." I think it went on from there. At this point, I had no idea what I was actually saying, I just know she was looking at me like, "Oh, God," which was not a good sign.

After this, I called my dad to fret about whether or not I would be accepted to this apartment. I said, "Well, if I can't find anything, I'm thinking I should just come home," to which he replied, "Don't do that!" I was taken aback. Apparently my parents are kicking me out of the nest. All my years of saying, "You couldn't pay me to move back home!" have finally taken their toll.

Anyway, we decided that I should try to look at some more apartments just in case. I called one ad, where I got a recording that said, "If you are a swinging adult who likes to have wild parties, this apartment is not for you!" However, when I drove all the way downtown to get a key so I could check out this not-for-swingers apartment, I found out that it had already been rented. They should really change the message.

On my way back home, I stopped to look at another apartment. This one was on the first floor, fairly big, with hardwood floors and rooms painted fun colors like turquoise and red (and also unfun colors like coral). However, I was disconcerted by the presence of several mousetraps in the kitchen. I asked the girl who was showing me around if they had a problem with mice, and she laughed and said (totally unsarcastically), "Oh no, those are just for dramatic effect!" Good luck renting that apartment, lady.

Tomorrow, I'm supposed to hear back about the dream studio apartment (keep your fingers crossed for me), and I'm also going to scout more possibilites. But for now, it's time to get back to the cookie-dough-and-Felicity routine.

Oh God, not another year
Really, did 2003 have to come? Wasn't 2002 bad enough? And wasn't the world supposed to end a few years ago anyway? Whatever happened with that?

Today I was planning to write about my New Year's resolutions and about how this new year was a clean start and full of possibility and more optimistic things like that. But then I woke up and found that I was still considerably depressed, so instead I've decided to curl up in my bed with a tube of chocolate chip cookie dough and watch the rest of the Sex and the City marathon that I didn't get to last night. Let's pretend that the new year starts tomorrow, OK?

Hey, did you know that my sister is going to Hawaii? And that she has a boyfriend who's a federal agent? And that she and her federal-agent boyfriend are going to Hawaii together?
Had you spent at least 5 minutes in the presence of my sister during the holiday season, you would know all of these things, as this is the approximate frequency with which she announced any and all of them. One night at dinner, the entire family was even treated to a play-by-play of her flight itinerary. ("And on January 3, we leave Lexington at 5:02 p.m. and arrive in Houston at 9:07 p.m., where we have an overnight layover at the Holiday Inn Intercontinental Hotel...")

The annoyance factor was exacerbated by my mother's frequent reminders that my sister helped pay for this trip by working two jobs this semester. Apparently, she has completely forgotten about the semester that I worked two jobs so that I could reward myself by barely making my rent payments so my parents could take my university-allotted living expense money and begin paying back my student loans. Of course, I did not even try this argument because I knew it would be met with, "Margaret doesn't have to have loans because she goes to an in-state school," and would probably devolve from there to include some sentiment about how my expensive college education was totally worthless because I am currently only employed by Pottery Barn. So I chose to keep my mouth shut and work on the angst-filled blog entry I would write on my return.

However, when the temptation became too much for me and I allowed myself an eye roll, my dad would remind me that I got to spend a semester in London. If he really thinks that living in London for three and a half months and getting to visit 10 European countries is equivalent to lying on the beach in Hawaii with your boyfriend for one week in January, I must say that my sister really got cheated. Hah! What a sucker!

Last night, I had the only dream I've ever had about working at the GAP that did not cause me to wake up in a cold sweat. This was because this dream involved Ryan Adams playing an acoustic concert specifically for the employees. He singled me out of the crowd to demonstrate something from a story he was telling, which involved him sticking his finger in my ear and yelling at me repeatedly. It was quite unpleasant, as you might imagine, but it was OK in the end because I got to make out with him after the concert.

Tonight's New Year's Eve plans include a very nice bottle of French red wine that I really don't want to move to another apartment, leftover Christmas chocolate, and taking full advantage of digital cable (including a Sex and the City marathon) and Internet before I have to give them up in 5 days. Call me pathetic if you want, but keep in mind that in 5 days I will have no Internet and no digital cable and will be really pathetic.